Western Short StoryFast-draw HickeyTom Sheehan

Western Short Story

When
the Quantrill Raiders left Bob’s Village ablaze near Sherman, Texas
in 1864, the only person left alive was a 14-year old boy who was
working in a neighbor’s well. He stayed in place, just above the
water line, for almost four hours as the raiders killed all the
inhabitants, young and old. He heard the voice of the leader (later
declared as William Quantrill) giving orders to destroy everybody and
everything. The smell of smoke and burning flesh descended to his
hideaway during the four-hours.

The
boy’s name was Kinaid Hickey, first generation Irish-American, born
in the spawn of a cluttered coastal city on the edge of the Atlantic,
and rushed to points west by his father whose dream for full freedom
was not yet completed.

When
all was quiet above him, though the horrid smells still assailed him
with a vengeance of their own, young Kinaid Hickey climbed from his
place of safety. Guilt and condemnation carried through him when he
saw the ruins of the small village. The cabin of his parents, their
roof of sod like all the other cabins, was gone to ashes and smoke.
Something told him he would never see his parents again; not alive,
he admitted. Outside of the small breeze working from the west,
silence reigned, along with the odor of burning flesh as it worked
its way into his senses, every odor sharp as the sins of mankind.

That
thought made him think of his father’s Irish knife, a Scian Dubh,
hot and honed on a grinding wheel. His father said his father had
found the knife at the forge of North Gate Bridge, near the diggings
around Christ Church Cathedral, in the very center of Cork.

“A
knife from antiquity,” he had called it, “our lone legacy from
the past, along with our blood and our name. Preserve it as long as
you can, Kinaid, with all the power you can muster.”

Young
but determined Kinaid Hickey stood rigid looking at the sights about
him, sadness, loss, fear, anger, all working him into a dither.

He
had to find his father’s knife, now his knife.

But
awareness came over him, a most compelling one that said, as if it
had a tongue and a voice, an internal command with presence: “Quick,
now, remember everything, every sound, every word, and every voice
you heard this day. Remember names, even the names of horses that you
heard riders call out. Remember everything, or write them down. From
this moment, by all that pervades you, you are the sole avenger.”
Came then the realization: it was the voice of his father, as plain
as the day that lifted itself off the prairie. “Avenge us,” it
said. “Avenge us.”

In
the distance, out on the span of good grass, young Hickey saw a pair
of horses feeding. One looked like his roan, Star, the way the sun
rolled on his back, off his mane, dotted by his swishing tail. “For
the chase, I’ll have something to ride.”

Later
in the day, the smoke receding, the smells declining a bit, Star
caught and tethered, Kinaid Hickey went looking for his parents. He
found his parents’ bodies, huddled in the ashes, what was left of
them. Hickey, saying his taught prayers as far as they went, buried
his parents beside the ruins, and then continued to search for the
knife, his father’s knife, the Scian Dubh, his legacy, his avenger.
He found it stuck in a partly burned timber that was beside the
ruins, one his father must have been working on.

The
knife was whole in his hand.

He
had his horse, a sidearm, a hat found on the grass, the Scian Dubh
tucked in his belt, and set off in pursuit of the band of killers. At
a trailside campfire, some travelers told him the Quantrill Raiders
had been the ones scorching the area, looking for Union troops and
Union sympathizers, weapons and ammunition for their own use, and
killing anyone in their way.

He
would practice fast-draws every day, for hours when he could, so he’d
be as good as possible at it. Better yet, he’d be a magician with
the fast-draw. He’d beat them all, including his parents’ killer;
he had named one man as the killer; he’d heard his name, Quantrill,
heard his voice, and knew his horse’s name was Greystock.

“Why
do they kill innocent people who have not taken any side?” he had
asked an old traveler met at a trailside campfire.

The
old traveler, sore-wounded from the war, said, “If you ain’t for
them, you’re against them, so you count nothing to them. Dead is as
good as you can get for them.”

“Are
there Union troops around here?”

“Up
the river,” the old warrior said, as he pointed north. “Some up
there, but I don’t know how strong, or how long they’ll be
around. They ain’t been doing so good, from what I hear. You going
after them? They’ll drag you into the ranks, same as Quantrill will
do, but he’d as soon as kill you if you was to say no.”

“I’ll
find the Union troops. I got settling to do.” The look on Hickey’s
face told the old timer to cease his questions, which he did on the
spot.

For
a long year Kinaid Hickey sat on Quantrill’s trail, through raids,
firefights, disillusion in his ranks, plain outright mutiny, and now
and then pure and unadulterated avoidance of stronger enemy forces.
That trail took him out of Texas, into Kansas, Missouri, and finally
into Kentucky. All the while, living off the land, on hand-outs and
other small generosities of people like him, on the move, he studied
the moves of Quantrill, before a raid when he could, or after the
fact. He learned patience and planning and the difference between
hatred and disgust. From a distance he always knew what murder was.

And
he practiced his fast-draw every day, becoming so fast that he
worried that he’d turn into a killer, the gun felt so good in his
hand, so hot, so ready. He had become the magician he wanted to be.

During
the long year of the chase, more than once he was forced to recede
into the background as Union forces pushed continually at Quantrill
positions or held their place in the war’s schemes. He did not want
to be caught up in the hysteria, or being suspected or convicted of
being a Quantrill supporter. Nor did he want the conscription pledge
tossed at him from Quantrill. Separation was important to him, and to
his cause. He would not let anything intrude on his cause if he could
help it.

That
year also brought a sense of age on him, from the generosity of young
women in high spirits, a few grandmothers who doted on the young and
apparent homeless youth, and the sisters of rage who could never
forget what pains had been inflicted on their families by or from
different causes or reasons. The whole country had suffered, and much
of it would continue to suffer at the hands of scoundrels, renegades,
murderers, brigands, traitors, carpetbaggers and the raw cruelty
observed from dawn to dusk that the war had loosed.

With
such impacts, the revenge harbored in Kinaid Hickey never wavered in
his journey, nor was it reduced by those he met on the way to its
completion.

So
it was, one evening in May of 1865, that Hickey was at the Three
Borders Tavern in western Kentucky, after working for a month with
his eyes on Quantrill’s band secreted in one of three different
hideouts he had discovered. He entered into a conversation at the bar
with a Quantrill man he had identified weeks earlier and who had been
sent to wait at the tavern for three recruits promised to enlist in
the cause.

The
Quantrill man said to Hickey, each having a mug of beer, “You ain’t
here looking for Bill, are you?”

“Don’t
believe I know any Bills around here,” Hickey said, tipping his mug
in salute to Bill, with his expression saying, “Whoever he is.”

“Oh,
if you knew Bill, you wouldn’t forget him. A man for the cause.”
He is mug was tipped in salute to the unidentified cause.

“A
noble cause?” Hickey said in a soft voice.

“As
noble as they come.”

Hickey
leaned closer and said, as he tipped his mug again, “To Jeff and
the boys,” and swallowed his drink in one gulp.

“Amen,”
the Quantrill man said, and did the same. Then he added, “You
wouldn’t be interested in lining up with Bill, would you?”

“I
will, sometime down the road,” Hickey said, “soon as I get my
parents buried properly. They were killed some miles apart last week
and I’m waiting to get them together for all the proper ending.
Least one can do for his parents.”

“I
like the way you talk, son, so have another beer on me and Bill. I’ll
be here next week before we move on, so I can talk to you again. I’m
one of Bill’s lieutenants,” he said, seemingly as proud as a man
could make it.

Hickey
smiled, nodded, accepted the new drink and said, “Here’s to a new
page in our history.”

“Amen,”
the Quantrill man said, as if he believed in grace, goodwill and God.
“I’ll catch up to you next time here.” He left the Three
Borders Tavern without having met any new recruits.

Riding
back to his own hiding place, Hickey knew he had a week to set in
place a few ideas he had been entertaining. The timing seemed
perfect, the area feasible, and his intentions in place. At his
backside, tucked into his belt, the Scian Dubh was as stiff as his
backbone. In his open hand he could feel the mythic handle hard in
place. A muscle or two twitched in his arm and ran up to his
shoulder.

Sleep
that night, after the long ride, was restless all the way through,
but visions of vengeance kept surfacing as if wakeful dreams were
enacting his coming days. They brought mild satisfaction in spite of
the moments of glory he envisioned.

But,
as many things happen to destroy or distort dreams, vengeance, and
justice, the sweep of the war made another entry into the short life
of Kinaid Hickey. A Union force had decided to camp in the area. From
a hidden lean-to he had discovered in a deep thicket, Hickey heard
the troops in constant movement of early morning, before the sun was
out of bed. And still in the gray darkness of morning he also heard
the rider galloping down the road below him yelling all the way into
the campsite.

“Hey,
Captain,” the rider was yelling! “Hey, Captain! We found
Quantrill! We found him! Sgt. Willoughby’s still there, keeping him
under observation. He ain’t but a dozen miles from here and
bivouacked like he ain’t going to move for a long spell.” He
leapt off his horse and, with sudden realization, brought himself to
attention and saluted his commanding officer rushing from his tent,
snapping tunic buttons into place, slapping down his unruly hair.

The
captain was not shaved or washed his face, but surprise gleamed on
his countenance like a welcome entry. “How far, Corporal? How far
did you say?”

“A
dozen miles, sir. An easy ride, and he’s got fast water on his
backside.”

“Lookouts,
Corporal?”

“Like
they was sleepwalking, sir. Like they never was trained to do
anything the right way.” He came again to attention, as if he
realized again the situation and his appearance before the commanding
officer. “It couldn’t be no better, sir, according to Sgt.
Willoughby, and he’s regular army, sir.”

Hickey
had several immediate thoughts: he’d never get to avenge the death
of his parents. Instead, the Union army would get to do the deed. And
the second thought was his immediate need to get in with the Union
force, to make his presence known, and then to carry out his original
mission.

But
he had to act quickly, and with conviction.

He
washed his face and snapped his clothes as clean as he could so as
not to look like a saddle tramp, saddled Star, and rode boldly into
the campsite, announcing his way: “Friend coming in. Kinaid Hickey,
last of Texas, with information on Quantrill’s raiders. I know
their campsite. I know their campsite.”

“Halt
in place!” a sentry yelled, and added, “Corporal of the Guard.
Corporal of the Guard, a rider coming in with knowledge of
Quantrill.”

The
Corporal of the Guard led Hickey to the unit commander. “Says he
knows Quantrill’s campsite, sir.”

With
speed and quick-thinking, Hickey told the captain of his short life,
the loss of his parents, and the sworn vengeance still working in
him.

“I’ve
scouted the place for almost a week, sir. I know they don’t plan to
move for at least a week. One of Quantrill’s lieutenants was
looking for recruits at the Three Borders Tavern, and let much of
that information loose of his tongue. There’s not a lot of camp
discipline. They are a pretty loose bunch right now, enjoying some of
the fruits of their thefts. Lots of liquor in camp from a recent
raid, from what I can see.”

“What
do you want of this, Hickey?” the captain said.

“Just
to be in on it, sir. I could be a scout for you. They’ve got water
at their backside and I don’t know why they camped there, except
it’s deep in a heavy glade of trees. It’s as if they believe
nobody can see them. If we get rid of a few sentries, we could walk
in on them.”

“You
know the look-outs’ locations?”

“Yes,
sir. I can pinpoint them. They haven’t changed in a few days.”

“All
right, son. You can go with us, but on your own. I take no
responsibility for your safety, but I do want to get that man. Two of
my men had relatives in Lawrence. You can sit in on our planning
session. Add what you can. Go in with us, but in the rear after we
take care of a few sentries.”

Kinaid
Hickey snapped off a quick salute that made the veteran captain
smile.

They
were not far from Taylorsville when they attacked the campsite of
William Quantrill and his men. Shots were fired after two sentries
were knifed in silence.

Kinaid
Hickey did not get off a shot at the desired target, though he
recognized Quantrill’s horse and did kill that animal.

When
Quantrill was taken off, severely wounded, to a hospital in
Louisville, Kentucky, Hickey followed the entourage. A day later he
introduced himself as an experienced orderly to the chief doctor who
hired him.

That
first night, after a full day’s work, Hickey slipped into the room
where Quantrill was sleeping, his wounds bothering him and keeping
him wide awake.

Kinaid
Hickey, now not yet 16 years old, shook Quantrill, held the Scian
Dubh under Quantrill’s throat, and said, “This one’s for you if
you get any better, which I doubt very much, but it’s for my
parents you killed in Bob’s Village, Texas before you came this
way. I have followed you every mile of the passage and I will not be
denied my revenge until I have killed you fair and square.”

It
was early in the morning of June 6, 1865 when Hickey left the room,
the infamous renegade still in agonizing pain.

Later
that morning William Quantrill, killer extraordinary, Southern Hero
and Northern Scourge, descending into his final sleep, died from
wounds he had received near Taylorsville, Kentucky, a mask of fear
across his face. Bob’s Village, Texas, for the record, held no
place in his mind. Nor was there any satisfaction or avenge in Kinaid
Hickey, who headed west again on his horse Star, toward freedom and
dreams, the Scian Dubh hidden under his shirt, stuck in his belt at
his backside, the Irish legacy moving on.

As
had been his habit for more than a year, he kept practicing the
fast-draw, his hands slick as ever, perhaps faster than ever. Kinaid
Hickey had become, for all the matter, a magician with the fast-draw
and he believed it should not go to waste; he might become a sheriff
or a marshal, he thought; there was always that need, heading west
and getting there.